


Lost Horizon

by Willa Shakespeare (AnonEhouse)



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Backstory, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-16
Updated: 2013-05-16
Packaged: 2017-12-12 01:30:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/805573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonEhouse/pseuds/Willa%20Shakespeare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We only had hints of Tarrant's past. What happened to make him desert the Federation? What happened when he ran the Kairos mission with Jarvik?</p><p>I've tried to answer those questions here. Jarvik turned out rather more sympathetic than I'd expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost Horizon

(If you are reading this on any PAY site this is a STOLEN WORK, the author has NOT Given Permission for it to be here. If you're paying to read it, you're being cheated too because you can read it on Archiveofourown for FREE.)

Sweat dripped from Tarrant's brow, threatening to run into his eyes. Unable to spare a hand from the controls he gave his head a sharp toss, spattering droplets onto the control panel. Abstractly, he noted that the salty fluid would encourage corrosion and decided to have the panel thoroughly cleaned later. That is, provided he survived his current predicament. The ship wasn't responding properly and he had a sinking feeling that he was running out of maneuvering room. Desperately, he slammed the engines on full, and banked, half-rolling as he attempted to gain altitude and simultaneously avoid contact with the very large object the sensors had detected just before they packed it in.

The ship lurched with an audible groan, and suddenly lights were flashing red on every instrument, and sirens were blaring hysterical warnings. Tarrant cut in the emergency thrusters, hesitating for a bare instant before committing himself. It was do or die. He did it.

The lights failed; loud screeching sounds from metal stressed beyond its limits assaulted his ears and the stench of burning insulation made him choke. The ship was done for. He was always pushing the envelope, but this time he'd torn it. He ran his hands over the control panels, his fingers knowing where everything was. Nothing responded. Complete systems failure. The shuddering stopped and the alarms whimpered to silence, leaving him sitting strapped into a dead ship, with nothing left to do but appreciate the bruises caused by flinging his body against the safety harness.

The hatch opened behind him, letting in a blaze of light, and a rush of cooler air. Tarrant winced and blinked, shivering at the abrupt change. 

"Well, Tarrant?" came the cold, arrogant tones of the man he'd come to respect, and yes, fear.

"No excuses. I don't know what happened." He fumbled at the release button, and unsnapped his harness, rising from his seat to turn and face his nemesis, a dark shape silhouetted against a bright yellow rectangle of light. He schooled his features to neutrality. There would be no sympathy, and he really couldn't say he deserved any.

"You lost your horizon, then you lost your ship. Despite the finest, most sensitive instrumentation, you got lost." Flight instructor Quint was a short, stocky, ill-favored man who was Tarrant's direct antithesis in all ways except one. The man could fly as if he'd been born with wings. Being berated by him stung.

Tarrant was glad he was already flushed from the heat of the cramped flight deck. At least he needn't worsen his embarrassment by blushing in front of Quint and the others who had gathered out of morbid curiosity. They were probably glad to see Tarrant get a dressing-down, jealous of his superior skills and intelligence, and even his good looks. They were a petty bunch, but they were his comrades, and his life could very well depend on them, so he had to maintain their respect. "I was relying on my instincts, as I've been taught."

"Instincts? Instincts! You are a cadet! Cadets do not have instincts. Cadets have," here Quint paused and slapped the side of the hatch, "very expensive surface-flight simulators which are geared to be run by instruments. You had a horizon indicator. You should have relied on it. It doesn't get confused in the fog or lost over the ocean."

"And how often am I going to have to worry about atmospheric conditions or gravity-oriented navigation? I'm going to be a space-pilot, not some land-grubbing city shuttle driver," Tarrant said, rashly venting his self-anger on externals. He did feel there was too much emphasis on surface flight, but it was stupid to complain about the curriculum. All that got you was a reputation as a whiner.

"If you become a pilot, cadet Tarrant, you will discover an interesting thing about space-vessels; most of them eventually land on planets. Nasty, great, gravity-generating planets that like nothing better than slapping down insolent young fly-boys. That in itself would be no great loss, but I would regret squandering a ship just to get rid of you. Once the simulator is realigned, you will perform six faultless runs of the program. I want to see the record-tape tomorrow at assembly."

"Yes, sir," Tarrant said, snapping a salute. The program ran for just over an hour. If the techs didn't take too long to reset the machinery and he didn't take time out for eating, sleeping, showering or studying for his other classes, he should make it- just. He sighed in relief. As punishments went, this was an easy one.

"Oh, and Tarrant. The viewscreen will be disabled. Save your 'instincts' for your lady-friends. The Federation wants officers who obey orders, not free spirits."

Tarrant held the salute until the instructor and the smirking cadets had gone. He scowled at the techs, then got out of their way. The Federation was making a mistake if it insisted on mindless obedience from its top-flight pilots. The rules changed out in space and a pilot must be able to change with them. He had to be able to think fast, and to think for himself. Of course, there had to be discipline and a clearly defined chain of command, but there would be times when a man would have to do what was right, despite regulations laid down by any Earth-bound bureaucrat. He'd prove that to them.

***

Yes, the rules were different in space. Tarrant had learned a lot on his first tour of duty that had never been mentioned in any of the textbooks. He wasn't entirely happy about some of the changes from the strictures of the Academy. For one thing, on Earth, he'd never even seen a mutoid in the flesh, but the service was putting more and more of the creatures on ships of the line. They made his skin crawl. His commander, Jarvik, feeling the same way, had demanded a 'real, live man' to pilot his ship. He'd selected Tarrant from the current crop of graduates, despite the fact that newbies were invariably allotted Inner Planets duty. Jarvik was -unique- to say the least. His attitudes toward women and technology were astoundingly retrograde. Still, the man was a remarkable tactician, brilliant despite his gruff mannerisms. Tarrant considered himself lucky to be serving with him. Of course, it wasn't entirely luck. He'd come out top of his class, after all. Privately, Tarrant suspected the times when he'd opened his mouth to protest some official stupidity had also worked in his favor. Jarvik liked an edgy, alert crew. You did everything by the book, but by Jarvik's book, which wound up every page with 'if it works, it's right'.

"Kairos, Commander?" Tarrant said, confirming the course for their latest mission. He was standing at ease in his commander's cramped quarters. Comfort wasn't important to a career officer. If it was, there'd be difficulty finding crew for the Pursuit Ships which were affectionately referred to as rations' tins.

"Another milk run; guarding an ore-shuttle." Jarvik replied. He laughed at Tarrant's obvious disappointment. "It's not so bad as all that. It's a very important mission, one the powers-that-be only entrust to the most loyal and competent ships. This time they found both qualities in the same ship." He rose and clapped Tarrant on the shoulder, grinning. "Now be about your duties, man."

Tarrant saluted and returned to the flight deck, careful not to rub his shoulder even though Jarvik's friendly gesture had left him bruised. The crew had a theory that Jarvik's mother had been a Targian Warg-Strangler and Tarrant had seen nothing to contradict it.

He strode onto the flight deck and observed the crew with satisfaction. As pilot and first officer, he was nominally in command whenever Jarvik was absent from the flight deck and it was his responsibility to ensure that everything ran smoothly. So, naturally, it did. "Nelsen, anything to report?"

"No, sir," replied the sensors' officer, a tall, young woman, rawboned and tough as whipcord. She met Tarrant's eyes seriously, giving no hint of the hours they'd shared on their last leave together. "Sensors are clear on all bands." 

He nodded and proceeded around the deck, assessing the ship's state of readiness. As they were just coming out of dock at Space Headquarters everything ought to be perfect, but a good officer made certain. Even on a milk-run mission, a Federation vessel had to be prepared for anything. There were smugglers and Amagon pirates and even the occasional mad rebel to be put in their places. He could understand the greed that motivated the smugglers and pirates, but wondered what led those poor rebel fools to deliberately throw their feeble ships against the might of the Federation. He'd probably never know. He'd shot down several rebel ships himself, but there never was enough left of them to collect any live bodies for questioning. Some people just were misfits, he supposed, unable to join the parade, so they stood on the sidelines and threw rocks. Like Deeta. No, that wasn't fair. Deeta had left Earth rather than join the Space Forces, but he wasn't fomenting insurrection. He simply hadn't got it in him to listen to authority. Deeta was older than Tarrant, but in some ways he'd never grown up.

No time for reminiscences about his black sheep brother. He had a job to do. He took his place at the helm and set a course for Kairos. So today he was only piloting a Pursuit Ship in order to guard a load of rocks. Tomorrow he could be leading a flotilla against the enemies of the Federation, or, more likely, making routine patrol sweeps. Still, he was flying. That was true freedom, the only one worth counting, being in space, and being the one who actually controlled the ship. The thought that he could, if he chose, go anywhere in the universe was very pleasant. Naturally, he wouldn't. But he could. That was the important thing.

***

"If you don't mind my saying so, sir, it doesn't look like much," Tarrant told Space Commander Jarvik. They had no orders prohibiting their landing on the planet, and Jarvik had become bored, orbiting and looking for non-existent enemies so he and Tarrant had taken a service pod down to Kairos, leaving their Pursuit Ship on station. Jarvik was curious about a planet that killed all humans who set foot on it, except during this one week out of every fifteen years. Every fifteen of its years, that is. Kairos had a much shorter, erratic orbit than Earth. Fifteen of its years worked out to be a little over five years as a Terran reckoned them. 

Jarvik stopped one of the laborers, and plucked a large translucent rock from the basket the man carried. He held it up to Kairos' sun, squinting at the dirty yellow chunk of crystal, then grunted and held it out to Tarrant. "We've come a long way, might as well see why."

"It looks like an inferior piece of plastex to me." Tarrant tossed the rock back in the basket and the laborer took it away after a sullen look backward at the two officers. Tarrant gazed thoughtfully around at the men gathering stones bare-handed. "Isn't this set-up a bit primitive?"

Jarvik brushed his gloved hands free of grit and said, "Machines break down. Men are versatile workers."

Tarrant thought it was ridiculous to have slave labor picking tremendously valuable stones one at a time from the surface when a single automated mining machine could have stripped the entire area bare in far less than a week. Another thing he'd not encountered under Earth's domes was slavery. Outer Worlds bond-slavery was the standard punishment for the families of deserters, but he couldn't quite believe there was any deterrent value to it. People who'd desert their comrades probably hadn't enough honor to care what became of their families. Still, if the bond-slaves were doing necessary work in places where workers were scarce, then at least they were serving humanity. The rationalization was an uneasy one. He could have been one of them if Deeta had waited until he was called for service before leaving Earth. Would the loss of Tarrant's freedom have been eased by the knowledge that he was in some small way advancing the Federation's expansion? He didn't think so.

Jarvik added, "The crystals are an organic formation. We don't know what produces them, so we can't just strip the place bare." He looked around once more. "But it wouldn't be much loss." He shrugged and turned to the officer who was checking off a tally sheet as large containers of crystal were loaded aboard the shuttle. "How long?"

"Well, tomorrow is the last day, but we're nearly full now, Commander," the man replied.

Jarvik said, "Good, we can leave early. That'll confuse the pirates."

The shuttle officer looked uncomfortable. "I'm afraid we can't do that, sir. My orders are to collect until the last possible moment."

Tarrant said, "But you can't overload your shuttle. You'd never lift off."

The man looked away from Tarrant, toward the shuffling workers. "I have been given directives to - jettison ballast."

"What ballast? You don't carry any bal..." Confused, Tarrant followed the man's gaze and suddenly realized what he meant. "No! They'll die!"

"Please, sir, keep your voice down," the officer said quietly.

Tarrant opened his mouth to protest, but shut it again when Jarvik looked at him. 

Jarvik asked, "How many?" he asked quietly. The tone was far removed from his usual jovial bluster, but the same steely edge was in evidence.

"I estimate ten." Then the officer said, "But they are all slaves, and expendable."

"They are all men," Jarvik snapped, "and they have not chosen to die so that some commissioner can line his pockets with a little extra wealth."

Both Tarrant and the shuttle officer looked shocked, but neither of them responded to Jarvik's fiercely uttered statement. Jarvik took the shuttle officer's by the shoulders and shook him once. "Have you no heart?"

"I have my orders, sir."

"Orders processed through computers! A slave isn't worth his weight in rocks, so leave him to die. Do you know what I think of those orders and the filthy machines that gave them?"

"Please, Commander Jarvik," Tarrant said urgently, "It isn't our place to question matters of policy." Jarvik whirled on him in astonished rage, and Tarrant added, "We are officers of the Federation. We only serve by flying a Pursuit Ship." He emphasized the last two words.

Jarvik blinked once, then shook his head. "Yes, Pilot, you are right. I am no policy-maker," he said to the shuttle officer, "just a simple field officer. We must return to our ship and make final preparations to escort your shuttle."

"Yes, sir," the shuttle officer replied, visibly relieved.

***

Jarvik came onto the flight deck of his Pursuit Ship, angrily stripping off his gloves and slapping them against the nearest console. "I intend to contravene regulations," he announced to the assembled crew, who stared at him. "For the record, you have all protested my actions, and done your best to stop me."

Sensors' Officer Nelsen stepped forward. "Commander Jarvik, I think I speak for the entire crew when I say that I would rather contravene regulations with you then be awarded the Presidental Cluster for serving under any other officer in the fleet."

Jarvik grunted. "You think like a woman. I am risking my career, but I'm not dragging the rest of you down with me. The Federation may need good officers someday." He pulled his sidearm out and showed it to them. Normally, no one went armed on board, so he was the only one with a weapon. "If it comes to trial, I forced you to obey. You will damn well remember that!"

"Yes, sir," the crew replied in unison.

"Right." Jarvik sat down in the commander's place, casually putting the gun on the console beside him. "We are going to land on Kairos. Give me communications with the shuttle."

Everyone went silent. The shuttle had lifted off less than ten minutes before, after giving word that the safe period had ended. It was supposedly a death sentence to land on Kairos now.

An officer fumbled at the switches before reporting that he had contact with the other vessel. Jarvik said, "Shuttle, this is Space Commander Jarvik, aboard your escort. There will be a slight delay due to malfunction. Remain in orbit and await further instruction." Jarvik slashed his hand in the air, cutting off the sputtering complaints coming from the shuttle. "We land, but I am the only one getting out." 

"Sir!" Tarrant protested, "It was my ..." He was cut off as Jarvik rose swiftly and shoved him hard in the chest, backing him up against a bulkhead.

"This is my ship! I give the orders!" 

Tarrant knew he was right. Ultimately, the commander was responsible, but if Tarrant hadn't suggested it, would Jarvik be doing this now?

***

The Pursuit Ship landed bare meters from the scorch-mark left by the shuttle. There was a terrific pounding on the airlock even before the metal cooled from the friction of their rapid descent. Jarvik checked his sidearm while standing at the airlock with Tarrant and several of the larger crewmen. "Open it," he ordered. Tarrant obeyed, letting in half a dozen terrified bond-slaves. They were incoherent with fear, but seemed otherwise unharmed. "Take them to the med-unit, get them sedated and locked away," Jarvik ordered. He glanced around the area where he and Tarrant had casually strolled less than eight hours before. To the eye, Kairos didn't look any different, but now every tree, every clump of grasses, every shadow, seemed to hide an evil secret."If I'm not back in half an hour, you take off," he told Tarrant. "No arguments. If I'm not back, then there's nothing to rescue. I won't have my last mission listed as a failure."

Reluctantly, Tarrant nodded. "It won't be," he promised, watching as Jarvik marched out into the unknown danger.

The minutes crawled by. Everyone was watching the monitors, but as the pick-ups were in the nose of the ship, they couldn't see anything on the nearby ground. Just short of twenty-five minutes, Tarrant spotted something moving in the distance. He went to the airlock and peered carefully, shading his eyes with his hands and wishing for a pair of power binoculars. The shapes separated into upright forms as they came closer. Tarrant grinned. "It's the Commander," he shouted, and would have leapt from the airlock, but even at that distance he could see Jarvik waving him back, and scowling. Jarvik was moving swiftly, even burdened as he was by the limp body on his back, and the other man he was half-carrying.

"Get this ship up!" Jarvik gasped as he collapsed within the airlock, letting the body he carried hit the deck. 

"Shouldn't we get you to medical?" Tarrant asked, worried by the blood covering Jarvik's uniform.

"It's not mine," Jarvik said. "Those poor devils." He shuddered. "Get us up!"

***

The two men Jarvik had rescued pulled through, though they'd be scarred for life. All the rescued men were put off the ship on the nearest non-aligned world. The laborers had kept a few pieces of Kairopan which they gave Jarvik in gratitude for their lives. He used the crystals to bribe the shuttle crew into silence and to pay for a start on the new world for the eight survivors. 

Tarrant had gone to Jarvik's cabin to report on the suitability of the world for their 'passengers' and found him lying on his bunk, tossing a piece of Kairopan from hand to hand. He had looked up, and said, "It's even uglier than it looks, Tarrant." He sat up and shoved the crystal in a small sack along with the others. He sighed. "It's greed that makes it so ugly." He wouldn't say anything more direct about what he'd seen on Kairos, and he wouldn't allow the crew to talk with the ex-slaves, so no one knew exactly what had happened.

Tarrant nodded uncertainly. "I'm not sure the command to leave those men behind came from Earth. It might have been a sector commander, trying to get credit for a bigger harvest than expected."

Jarvik shook his head. "It doesn't matter who it was. Don't you see? The machines rule us, not the other way around. Courage, strength, honor; these mean nothing to a machine. But they are everything to a man. They must be." Jarvik looked up at Tarrant. "But is there a place for such a man in the Federation?"

"There will always be a place for honor," Tarrant replied.

Jarvik grinned. "At least so long as you and I serve the Federation, eh, lad?"

***

Yes, Jarvik had been a good commander, Tarrant mused, while standing in the commander's quarters of his very own Pursuit Ship less than a year after the Kairos' mission. Jarvik not only carried out his missions with efficiency but he also developed his crew for the good of the Service, instead of his own career. Tarrant had been quite willing to remain Jarvik's pilot, but the Commander had said he was wasted as a mere pilot and sent in Tarrant's request for transfer along with his own recommendation that he be given a Pursuit Ship. Jarvik had won enough commendations and had asked for so little in return that Space Command generally listened to his requests.

Actually, Tarrant didn't feel there was anything 'mere' about being a pilot, but he had to admit, he enjoyed the challenge of being in command. The bad part about it was that he now had to handle the paperwork and bureaucracy. That was probably what kept Jarvik commanding a Pursuit Ship, when, with his talents, he ought to be leading a flotilla from the flight deck of a Star Cruiser. Then again, Tarrant grinned to himself, it might just be the computers Jarvik was avoiding- the man belonged in another age- probably on the deck of a wooden ship sailing Earth's ocean. 

Tarrant sighed. Daydreaming wasn't getting the job done. He finished dictating his report into the ship's log-computer. The last mission hadn't been to his liking. Lately, it seemed every little planetoid was fussing about its rights, and the fleet was constantly being dispatched on 'maneuvers', which were thinly veiled threats. Tarrant didn't know enough about diplomacy to feel free to object, but he'd allowed his crew 'R and R' on the last planet they'd given one of these shows. The people were frightened of his men, hiding their children and women the instant they saw black uniforms. The Federation should be there to protect its citizens, not browbeat them. Some days Tarrant wasn't quite sure what was right, anymore. He didn't like the feeling. It was too much like the day he'd 'flown' a simulator into the fog-shrouded ground. A pilot had to keep his perspective, in all meanings of the word. It wasn't enough to know the spatial relationship of your craft with the universe. You had to know where you stood.

He shook his head. Never mind. The universe was bigger than any one man. You just obeyed orders and trusted that your leaders knew what they were doing. All right, let's see, the next mission seems fairly straightforward. Join the spatial reconnaissance and blockade of the planet Auros. Liaise with Space Commander Travis, leading the ground forces. Apparently, Auros needs a lesson in discipline. Tarrant had visited Auros once. They were a proud people, but they hadn't much in the way of resources. No doubt this Travis need only put on a brief display, little more than a military parade, and they would see the light.

He hoped. He had an uneasy feeling that his horizon was tilting.


End file.
